


Blessed By a Curse

by AVisionOfFire



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Lots of Angst, lots of paaaain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVisionOfFire/pseuds/AVisionOfFire
Summary: Three years have passed since Jon Snow murdered Daenerys Targaryen for the greater-good of Westeros and the free world, or so he and many others believed. But as the dust began to settle and the dragon queen became nothing but a memory whispered between nameless men, temporary peace spilled into chaos as Bran the Broken began a sinister conquest of eliminating those who dared to oppose him – starting with the Iron-Born.Meanwhile, in Volantis – a red priestess had a vision on her deathbed that a Targaryen princess was revived from the ashes of a volcano in Old Valyria.





	Blessed By a Curse

Swinging an axe above his head, Jon Snow grunted as he brought the weapon down hard, splitting a piece of firewood in half. Winter was unrelenting, the winds were bitterly cold and the snow heavy and thick as it fell from the grey skies above. But this was life beyond the wall, for all wildlings. He was used to it now, three years of rebuilding Hardhome into the great fishing village it once was had hardened him to these conditions. The wildlings had named him King of the Free Folk after Bran Stark sent him back North, but he was tired of titles after everything that had happened.

He never spoke of the dragon-queen in front of Tormund or the others, and they knew better than to mention her name to him after he had killed a Thenn, strangling him with bare hands after he had mocked her death. It had been a slow killing and a painful one, he struggled and gargled on his own blood and bile as Jon crushed his windpipe. It was a side to the King that not many had seen, and one that made him both feared and respected by the Wildlings.

Grabbing the pieces of broken firewood, Jon furrowed his dark brow and strolled through the village that consisted mainly of wooden houses and brown tents. Children ran past him, playing in the snow as they always did while women prepared food around the several fires lit in the community. Boys and girls alike practiced sword-fighting and how to shoot arrows, and grown men fought each other with audiences of free-folk cheering them on. Others had taken wooden boats to sea, hoping to catch plentiful amounts of fish for the coming weeks. There were drunk people singing and people playing hand-made instruments, while others told stories of the battle of Winterfell to young children who were not old enough to remember.

Life had carried on and there was now a sense of community again for the people beyond the wall. Jon had helped them greatly, but they had helped him in return. Rebuilding Hardhome had given him a purpose and a distraction from the reality that he had been avoiding his every waking moment, but when the sun dipped beneath the horizon and night fell, he knew he couldn’t run from the nightmares that plagued him when he reluctantly closed his eyes.

“Took your fucking time.” Tormund grinned at Jon with arms wide open when he arrived outside the biggest of the brown houses. “We’re all freezing our balls off in here.”

Jon smirked up at the ginger Wildling and shoved past him into the house that was as cold on the inside as it was outside. The only remaining evidence of the fire that stood in the centre of the small dining hall was the grey smoke that drifted up towards the ceiling and out of the manmade chimney. Tossing the wood onto the pile, he wiped the snow from his hands and turned to glance around the room. Eight Wilding men stood around, a couple of them looking away when they made eye contact with the King.

“Any news from down South?” He asked after a long pause, looking over at Grendel, one of the men who regularly sent and received ravens from Winterfell to keep Hardhome loosely in the loop of Westeros politics.

Grendel glanced at Tormund who nodded and then back to Jon.

“Bran the Broken has given orders to kill those who oppose him, he declared the Iron-Born enemies against the crown and unless they bend the knee…” Grendel looked at the others in the room then shrugged. “He’s going to kill ‘em all. The Queen in the North has said she will defend the Iron-Born and said she tried to talk her cripple brother out of murdering those who saved him in the battle of Winterfell, but he’s not interested.”

“Things have taken a turn down shit creek down there.” Tormund raised a brow at Jon. “What’s your plan?”

Jon clinched his jaw and sighed deeply, feeling a burning rage bubbling deep within him at the news he didn’t want to hear. Three years ago, Tyrion Lannister told him that killing _her_ would put an end to all of this, that if the lords of Westeros _chose_ a King – the world would be better off for it. But that is not what he was hearing, instead more of the same was happening but this time by a Stark. Bran was alive because of Theon Greyjoy, and now he was declaring Yara as a traitor.

“There is no plan.” Jon stated bluntly, refusing to stumble into another pointless war that meant more death and suffering for people who didn’t deserve it after everything they had endured. “We’re not fighting another fucking war because Bran can’t cast his pride aside long enough to see that he has no enemy.”

The Wildings seemed impressed by that answer and Tormund narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “If your little brother has declared them an enemy for not bending the knee, then he could do the same to the North. He could do the same to us. What then?”

Jon pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth and looked at Tormund. “Then if the snow doesn’t kill them when they march north, we will.”

The Wildling men all stood up straight and bold, liking what they heard so much they cheered out victoriously as if they had already won a battle that was not theirs to fight yet.

“Good.” Tormund rumbled.

Jon lifted his chin and eyed the men before he headed for the wooden stairs in the house, leaving them behind as he retreated to his quarters for the night. He was tired, both mentally and physically. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but even in his dreams he got no relief. Stripping naked, the troubled King climbed into his bed for the night and stared at the ceiling. His eyes were dark and heavy, the lines in his face deeper and his beard thicker. He looked much more like a man now than he ever had, the endless battles in his life shaping him into something he never thought he would be. Fighting the urge to close his eyes, he managed to stay awake for another hour before exhaustion grew too much to handle.

_“You’ll always be my King.” Daenerys smiled back at him, the soft violet hue of her eyes making his heart sink with regret. He tried to tell her he was sorry, but his mouth was sewn shut and his throat filled with fire. Reaching for her, he desperately tried to pull her into him but she was always just out of reach._

_“I trusted you.” She whispered, her voice echoing in his mind so loudly his skull began to cave in. “I gave you everything, Jon Snow. I gave you everything and you gave me NOTHING.”_

_The fire spread down through his chest and into his limbs and he was in agony, his flesh melting from his bones and pooling around him as she stood watching him. Managing to rip the stitches from his bleeding mouth, Jon attempted to say her name but a steel dagger flew from his lips and struck her in the chest._

_She gasped and gazed back at him, blood tears spilling from her eyes and nose. “Why? Why? WHY? I loved you. I loved you. I loved you…”_

_He screamed out as she turned to ashes in front of him._

Starting awake, Jon gasped for breaths of air he couldn’t quite catch and sat up in a panic. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, and his muscles cramped from the tension in his body. Glaring around the dark room, pained tears pricked his eyes and blurred his vision as he clutched at his throat. Another nightmare, different from the last but just as horrific. He was haunted by her memory, he always would be.

From the doorway of his quarters stood his direwolf Ghost, lowering his large head submissively as blood-red eyes stared back him curiously. Every night Jon would scream out her name without knowing it, every night Tormund and the others would pretend it never happened and every night Ghost would stand guard, making sure his master was okay.

                                                                                  

                                                                                                                    ---

 

Deep within the city of Volantis, the high red priestess Kinvara sat at the bedside of another priestess who was succumbing to a disease that had ravaged her body. Dunking a white wash-cloth into a basin of cool water, Kinvara rinsed it out and then dabbed at the priestess’s forehead.

“The Lord is calling you home to be with him, your duty to this world has been served.” She told the young woman whose breathing had become laboured. Soon she would pass, and they would bless her one final time by burning her body on a pyre outside of the red temple. “No more pain, no more suffering – only peace.”

Suddenly the priestess grabbed Kinvara’s wrist painfully with enough strength to bruise her skin. Sitting upright, the dying woman’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and she gasped deeply. Her voice was twisted and inhumane, deeper than what a woman’s voice should sound like. “There is a second-coming upon us, a revival from the ashes in Old Valyria. The Lord of Light has blessed us with a thousand blessings and rebirthed the princess who was promised with the fire of a thousand dragons. She walks among us, she who revolted against the God of Death.”

Kinvara glared in wonder at the priestess who twisted at her wrist so painfully she thought it might break. She winced when the dying woman fell back against the bed, her last breath escaping her chest softly and her eyes fading as blood tears spilled down her cheeks.


End file.
